Lillian Holmes and the Leaping Man (19 page)

She stared at the Jackal, anger boiling in her veins. “Do not speak to me again, unless it is to tell me where my daughter is.”

“Daughter? Why, you have no daughter. Another delusion. How sad,” the lawyer said in a mocking tone.

“You will burn in hell for what you did to me. I was a girl! You forced yourself on me and then you ripped my baby away! You had me drugged into silence, threatened to kill me should I reveal your true nature. I hate you! You took everything from me, and now you would have my home, my inheritance? I will not allow it!”
Please, God, let me have one more day with George. Someone help me.

Pemberton scowled and turned to the doctor. “We tried your way. Wheeler will investigate, and all shall come to light. We must make sure she can never speak again.”

Schneider nodded.

So, then, the doctor, too? After all these years, so many confidences… Lillian ran her hand down to her pocket, not willing to let them lay a hand on her again.

Her fingers had just touched the metal of her pistol when she heard the pop of a gun and felt a sting in her chest. Her legs folded under her, and she thought of George, hoped he would choose life even though hers was done. The last thing she heard was Addie’s scream, a male voice, and two more gunshots.

***

George leaned against the wall and watched as an older woman dressed like a governess hugged the lifeless body of Lillian to her chest, rocking her as if she were a baby, howling in pain, covered in her blood.

A tall elderly man stood next to her, face buried in his hands, frail body shaking as he wept. “Is she gone?” he mumbled through his hands.

The woman nodded through her cries.

Dead? Lillian was dead? Numbly George thought it would be nice if he himself could be killed by a single bullet.

The man Lillian said raped her twitched on the floor, one of the two men George had shot—too late. He stood straight, walked on weak legs to the man’s side, and shot him again, this time in the face. The burly hospital cab driver rushed in from outside, no doubt having heard the ruckus, and George shot him at point-blank range. Then he dropped the pistol, stepped over the body of the driver and walked out of the house forever.

CHAPTER TWENTY

A monster’s prayer.

George knew not where he’d go. Perhaps he’d simply keep walking, not stop to feed, and let nature take its course. How long would it be? Not long perhaps, if he let the sun weaken him. No matter, he thought. It wasn’t a bad plan at all.

“Are you George?” He’d taken only a few steps and turned to see Lillian’s old butler waving to him from her porch. “She is asking for you!”

“Pardon?”

“Hurry!”

George leapt up and past the man into the parlor. The scene had not changed, but the woman holding Lillian looked to him, agony etched across her face.

“You are George? She said your name more than once. I thought her dead, but she spoke your name…”

George knelt down and put his ear to Lillian’s chest. A mortal would not be able to hear the faint murmur within, but he did. “Lil. Lil, can you hear me?”

She did not respond.

“Leave us,” he instructed. The old pair stood still. “If you ever loved her, leave us now! Leave the house and do not come back until I send word! Is anyone else about?”

The man shook his head.

“Lock the door behind you!”

The two rose and obeyed. He could see in their face that there was no hope, that they would give everything to take back what had just happened. As would George.

As their sobbing grew faint, he stared down into Lillian’s white face. He pressed his lips to hers and whispered, “Love, it’s me.”

Her eyes fluttered open, flicked around, glazed, and he searched for any sign of the incomparable woman within. Yes, there was recognition. He pressed on her wound and she groaned.

What to do? There was only one option. He could not choose for her, but was she strong enough to understand? Should he even offer her this life of damnation? Didn’t every vampire spawn hate their maker at some point? He could not bear it if she hated him.

Oh, please, Lil, please!

“It is a harsh, miserable existence, but it is an existence, Lil. Quickly, do you want to stay?”
God in heaven, if you can hear the prayer of a monster, hear mine.

She closed her eyes again, and he stopped breathing.
Please, please, please.

“Yes,” she croaked. “You. My baby…yes.”

George took a breath and prayed again that it wasn’t too late. She needed strength to drink. He ripped at his wrist with his teeth and held it to her mouth. She didn’t move, but he opened her lips so a few drops could get in.

It’s not enough! This fasting has left me too weak!

He sucked from his own wrist and put his mouth to hers, spat the blood into her. She coughed and protested but swallowed. He repeated the process three times as he caressed her hair and coaxed her. She drank a little more each time, and her eyes gradually seemed to gain awareness.

And now…

George scanned the parlor and found a letter opener on the desk, closed his eyes and plunged it into his neck. Lillian stared at him, repulsion in her eyes, but she did as he said when he lifted her to nestle against his neck. Her warm tongue ran along his skin, and he held her tightly, bidding her to drink. And drink she did.

She grew stronger, and he ran his hand through the blood pooled on her chest, pressing it to his mouth and licking her life into his own. Nothing in his existence had prepared him for the sense that he was now complete. He’d given life, such as it was, to someone who loved him. He hoped she’d still love him when she understood the full bargain.

The strain was too much. He’d given her too much too fast. But just before he passed into unconsciousness, he clung to Lillian tightly, telling her how he loved her and thanking God for hearing a monster.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Leaping Woman.

“Come join us, Lil,” George chided. He rubbed her shoulders and leaned in to kiss her neck, and his icy breath sent a thrill up Lillian’s spine to mix with the euphoria he assured her would pass.

As it would be a crisis purportedly to “make her recovery from morphine addiction seem like the bite of an ant,” Lillian hoped the transition would be complete before Annaluisa returned from New Orleans, where she’d apparently gone to spread rumors of George’s departure to the west. Madam Lucifer and her minions would be put off the scent for a while, he and his brother Phillip believed, but that wouldn’t last long, for the woman was far too clever to commit all her resources in one direction. Too, Lillian grew breathless whenever she imagined asking Annaluisa’s return. She could soon ask about her mother! The truth was so close.

For a week she’d spent half her time drinking the blood George provided, without questioning its origin, and hungering for more. The other half was spent in his arms, naked, learning how naïve her fantasies had been, how the reality of George’s sexual appetites defied description. The best part of surviving the Jackal, besides the knowledge that he could no longer hurt her, was living to see George smile and laugh and enjoy himself. They were as one, and she enjoyed the ties that bound them. He’d warned her that she would come to resent him as her maker, but she didn’t believe that. She could never resent him. He’d saved her life more than once.

They had managed to return her house to some normalcy within a week. The three deaths were explained away as the work of a vicious burglar who caught Lillian’s visitors unaware. Lillian and those in her employ were said to have escaped in the nick of time through the rear of the house. Thank God that the children were not about, the neighbors commented.

Aileen and her fortunate brothers were now reinstalled in the household. Addie and Thomas posed a more difficult problem, but after briefly seeing Lillian they had been convinced finally that she was recuperating and needed quiet solitude. At George’s suggestion, Lillian bought the Wheeler seaside cottage and sent Thomas and Addie for a long-overdue holiday. Perhaps they could stay there, she considered, though she would miss them.

And, what to do about Bess? The loss of her dear friend haunted her day and night, and was a thorn on the rose of her new life with her love. After
almost
convincing George and Phillip that Bess knew nothing of import about them, which was a bit of a lie, George had urged her to put the matter aside.

“I am so sorry, love. This kind of loss is common, nay, inevitable. It is best for her; you must try to keep your focus on that.”

“I do not think she would tell others about us, George, if I were to tell her the truth.”

He had shaken his head in pity. “If there were a governing House in Baltimore, she might be dead already, Lil. The more distance you put between yourself and Bess, the safer we are, the safer she is. I will not hurt her, but Madam Lucifer would not care about your feelings for her, nor would others of our kind.”

“Then I must abandon my home, Aileen and the boys, Thomas and Addie as well?”

“We will speak of this, on how you must behave, on what care you must take. And do not forget that when the hunger is upon you, one of those little boys will look like a very tempting snack.”

She’d wept in his arms at having lost so much for this chance to live. She’d had so little to begin with.

Bess had come calling early in the week to check on her, and she’d begged George to let them speak. He had. They’d all dined together, and then Bess pulled Lillian into the parlor for a private talk. She’d grilled Lillian on the details of the deaths of the Jackal, doctor, and the driver. While she’d seemed accepting of the truth of their demises, she’d looked unconvinced by Lillian’s answers regarding her recovery.

“You trust George, do you not, Bess? You are the one who ran to him—who saved me, in truth! It was a very happy circumstance that he was able to nurse me back from the edge of death. He is very knowledgeable.”

Bess jutted her chin out. “While I am your intellectual inferior, Lil, you do me a great disservice. My disfigurement has not addled my brain. I heard talk of vampires, of strange occurrences. What I see with my own eyes is some change in your person.
Tell me what has happened.
”

“I cannot, Bess. It is for your safety—”

“No.” Her friend was upset. “Why are the Orleans brothers so strange? What of Kitty? You all speak a secret language without words, by looks and signals and nods. I know George saved your life and that I am the one who asked him to, but—”

“And I am grateful to you. Please trust me. More I cannot say. Perhaps in due course…”

“I thought you were finished with secrets, Lil! I was to be your Miss Watson. I suppose I am no longer needed as you have your George. I have encountered such a dismissal more than once: Once betrothed, a friend serves less purpose.” Bess shrugged and wiped away tears. “Perhaps I would be no better if the situation were reversed. But I always thought you nobler than any woman I knew.”

Lillian bit her lip lest a scarlet tear escape and draw more scrutiny from Bess, but her heart felt crushed. “We still have to search for my mother and baby. And I have not forgotten that finding you a husband is on my life list. Oh, Bess, I love you so. I wish I could speak freely.”

“If you will not speak freely, then I think we cannot be friends—and that your love is rather weak.” With that, Bess had stood and quit the house, leaving Lillian alive but with a brand-new hole in her heart.

Phillip and Kitty sat now at a table, the latter sketching with charcoal while Phillip read.

“I’ll join you in a moment, Georgy,” Lillian said, glancing up at him hovering over her shoulder. “I’ve wanted to write my friend for a while. Give me a moment.”

“Your friend?” George frowned. “Lil, do you feel well? To which friend are you referring?”

She smiled. “I am quite well. Have no fear that I am imagining him or our correspondence, or that I am giving away any particular secrets. We have talked, and I will show you proof tonight.”

She winked, and George kissed her hand and joined his brother at the table.

Dear Mr. Conan Doyle,

I hope this finds you well. Perhaps you’ll remember that we corresponded a few years ago about my namesake, or so I like to think of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You were so kind in encouraging me to pursue my desire of becoming like your great detective, and you advised me to take great care. I likely should have heeded that warning a bit more.

I am writing to report that I have solved my first case, although in a somewhat circuitous fashion. I trust further investigations will go more smoothly. You noted correctly in your letter to me that it might bring sadness to know there is no real Holmes family in your circle. Indeed, I have lived as an orphan but have recently learned that two of my relatives may be alive. That will be my next case, and I am happy to report that I am surrounded by good friends whom I believe will assist me. Indeed, one of those friends is my new beau! He is smart and has a rather dry sense of humor, and he reminds me somehow of your great hero, with a few important differences. But enough about my personal life.

I hope you will allow me to continue to write about my exploits, as I cannot think of another who would be interested in them.

One question, if I may. While I know this will likely strike you as most peculiar, I remember that you wrote of your particular interest in Spiritism and phenomena unexplained by normal investigations. Do you know anything of the legends of vampires, and if so, do you deem them to be true or simple superstitions? I understand you are friends with Mr. Stoker, and perhaps you have discussed this topic with him. I would value your opinion on the subject, especially on the presence or absence of vampire souls. I have begun to imagine that the creatures might not be all evil. I would love to know if you have already “eliminated the impossible” and to hear about the truth that remains.

I look forward to your next novel with great anticipation and remain your greatest fan, and, if I may flatter myself, a friend.